


heavenly way to die (let's practice this religion)

by royal_chandler



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) RPF
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Angst, First Time, Infidelity, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-16
Updated: 2014-09-16
Packaged: 2018-02-17 07:48:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2302058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/royal_chandler/pseuds/royal_chandler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael Fassbender is irrevocably in love with James McAvoy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	heavenly way to die (let's practice this religion)

**Author's Note:**

> So this fic has been sitting on my desktop for months, since before DOFP came out. At least this first part. I've decided to add a second chapter because actions have consequences and all that. I'm actually pretty nervous about this piece. I have not written RPF in a very long time and I've never written a story in which I acknowledge the marriage of an actor/actress.
> 
> Aside from a few references to their interviews, this is entirely fiction. Let's be honest, I'm really just playing in Michael's and James' sandbox.
> 
> And because I can't think of an original title to save my life, it semi-belongs to The Smiths.
> 
> Happy Tuesday!

Michael is irrevocably in love with James McAvoy.

At first Michael hadn't been too concerned with his attraction to the other man. He had stupidly aligned James with the nameless faces from his past, the dozens of actors and actresses he'd met over the years while building his career, all getting more beautiful with time but ultimately not keeping his romantic attention for too long. He figured that his fascination with James would pass, that he'd get used to being opposite of the man on a daily basis. He didn't think he'd be so wrong.

The plain truth is that all of his senses would have to be obliterated, not only sight, for him not to have fallen for James. Yes, he's gorgeous, god, he's fucking pretty but that's only a layer of it, could be considered transparent with everything he's got going on underneath. The bright in his eyes comes from his mischief, it's humor that marks the red of his lips, so often upturned and sharp. That generous, kind, and thoughtful heart is the truest cause for the foul-up constantly in Michael's knees, for the incessant wanting in his bones. On particularly difficult days—there haven't been many but the severity of the few is hard to forget—it's an ache that can keep him weighted in his bed, unable to move or fetch a breath.

Michael's been good though. Over the past four years, he's been able to do what he's best at and act. He made himself find comfort in pretending. Their friendship had caught on like a blaze and Michael just chooses to pretend that he doesn't burn hotter, that he isn't engulfed with a fierce need for more. He sates himself temporarily in people who don't mean as much, in frequent one-night stands. And while he comes to care for a few people, Michael will think of something so rich as James' laugh and those few people are drowning, ignorant of how they're all wasting their time with him. The simple truth is that Michael could meet every single person on this planet and it wouldn't make any difference because he's already met the one that measures up to be his entire world.

He's been good at quelling that truth and making due with the fact that James is not his, ignoring the pathetic twists of his heart. Until tonight.

They're both drunk in Michael's caravan, seated on his couch and laughing because it's the start of April and they've decided to celebrate both of their birthdays with Wild Geese, a gift from Michael's father. Fuck the seven a.m. call time for tomorrow morning.

“We totally have to steal another one, mate,” James is saying. His voice is thick and heavy, cured with whiskey and the guilt-laced smokes from earlier ( _my wife's gonna kill me_ , James had said, _but I haven't had a fag in like four months. I'm due, yeah? Hand one over. Yep. Quick, dude! Before I change my mind._ ) “It's one of the greatest highlights of my life. I need a replay.”

Michael laughs loudly. “Careening out of a caddy car is a highlight for you?”

“Right up there with my son's first steps. Top five at least,” James confirms with enthusiasm. He pauses and makes an affronted gesture with his free hand, the one not lovingly cradling a tumbler. “What? Don't go looking at me like that. Stop that face! It's not like you don't know I'm fucking crazy. This is supposed to be my safe place. Stop judging me, man.”

“You know I don't. Admiring, not judging,” he corrects, entirely honest but hoping that his tone rings more amused than fond.

“Good.” James beams. “The way I see it, this month belongs to us and we should just take it over. Celebrate every single day with a shenanigan. Steal a caddy tomorrow, go skywriting the next day. Maybe in a week, we could find a frozen yogurt machine and bring it on set, replace the chess board with it. Fine Xavier mansion décor that.”

“Yeah, yeah. We'll have to be super creative,” Michael replies with a nod, plotting along. “I don't know about frozen yogurt though. Not really a fan.” He points out with a finger. “We could hand out cake balls. Birthday cake flavor, obviously. Plus Jennifer would love us. Finally.”

“That's not awful. Although we are most definitely going to have a discussion about whatever vendetta you have against froyo.” James says solemnly and then his eyes widen with delight after a beat. “Cupcake jello shots.”

“You're a genius," Michael concludes, and because he just has to, adds, "a mutant genius.”

“I'm truly frightened by my own power.” James takes a sip from his glass and tilts his head toward the door. “One more smoke?”

“Sounds good,” Michael says. He places his own glass on the small piece of furniture that's supposed to pass for a coffee table and digs into his pocket for his Reds. He flips open the pack and offers it out to James. “Don't take my lucky.”

“You and your fucking lucky,” James mumbles. He pops a cigarette into his mouth and speaks around it, unintentionally setting off a flare in the bottom of Michael's stomach. “That was one time. You recovered, didn't you?”

It was during the filming of _First Class_ and Michael had caught a bug, spent the better part of two days vomiting in one of the studio's bathroom stalls. He shouldn't be too hard on James though. He had been sorry. Although it hadn't really been his fault, it was purely a coincidence. James had went out of his way to make homemade chicken soup on a hot plate—they've got much better accommodations now—and forced what had felt like gallons of Gatorade down Michael's throat.

“Nag!” James calls over his shoulder with a smirk as he walks out with Michael's lighter already in his possession. He's a sinful sight with the hair extensions and the scruff.

Michael follows him with shades similar to that of a puppy.

...

The night air is cool but the metal side of the trailer isn't too cold against his back. One more smoke has turned into two when he flicks his gaze to the purplish haze of the sky before looking back at James. “We can't do everyday,” he introduces softly. At James' raised brow, he continues, “Bryan expects us to finish before April is done, we're on schedule so we won't be together much longer. Of course, the press junket begins fairly soon but it won't be April.”

“Depressing,” James winces.

“Sorry, I don't know why I said that,” Michael says. It's partly a lie. He doesn't know what gave him the inclination to say it aloud but if he's being honest with himself, it's been on his mind a lot recently, ever since the calender moved past March and he realized that James will soon be out of his life again. He sucks on the filter of his cigarette, mentally begging to have his high back and get his shit together. “Fuck,” he breathes out alongside the cloud of smoke. “Jesus Christ.”

“D'aww. You'll miss me,” James sing-songs, teasing.

Michael doesn't respond and that's where the mistake starts. The mood changes and James takes him all too seriously. So serious he puts out his unfinished cigarette under his foot before bringing Michael into his arms and god, he's as warm as a furnace, smells fucking amazing and feels so damn perfect. He causes Michael to lose his mind. When James pulls back, Michael doesn't let him go completely. He's careless, embraces the touchy-feely energy that alcohol gives him, and holds on. He keeps his hands on James' flanks and is careful not to singe the cotton of his shirt. Quietly, he admits, “I'll miss you.”

Eyes and smile soft, James says, “I'll miss you, too. You know you're my best mate, right? Won't be the same without you but we've got planes, and cars, and vespas. You can stop by mine anytime you want, same goes for me because I say so and you need me to fix up that bachelor pad of yours every once in a while. It's not the end of the world. Much as I love this project, you and I—we're bigger than it, okay? Partners in crime aren't limited to the specific bank they rob.”

Michael snorts with a small smile. “Made that one up on your own? I'm not too sold on your mutant genius anymore, McAvoy.”

“Fuck off,” James retorts without bite. “The point is that you matter to me as well.”

Michael shakes his head. He knows he should keep his big, stupid mouth shut, he knows but it happens anyway. “It's nowhere near the same.”

“What? Of course it is. What are you talking about? Michael, you honestly mean a great deal to me. How can you—” James starts, questioning and searching with his eyes but Michael swallows the rest of what he has to say. Swallows James' air and keeps it for himself. He tastes the shock on James' mouth, captures his bottom lip and licks at it, makes the kiss deep. James makes a noise that Michael doesn't really recognize, doesn't know yet, but he kisses back. Eager and elated, Michael cherishes tobacco that is so much sweeter coming off of James' tongue. Absentmindedly, he tosses away his cigarette when he's no longer able to settle for anything less than skin to skin. He needs to touch, has to. He frames James' face with his hands and feels his own heartbeat run wild.

Nothing in his life has ever slotted so seamlessly together. Absolutely nothing.

That's why he's crushed when it ends, when James wrenches his mouth away like he's pained.

The expression in James' eyes causes Michael's insides to plummet, leaves him breathless in a terrible way. Outside of character Michael has never seen James look so betrayed, the remains of the kiss like the aftermath of a battering storm.

“James, I—I don't know.” Michael fumbles, the fucking moron that he is. He reaches out for the other man, physical hurting when James steps farther away from him. His arms fall limp to his side, feel so fucking empty, and he chokes out, “I didn't mean to do that. I'm sorry.”

“Are you serious? What was that?” James heaves out. He's shaking and all Michael wants to do is hold him again, calm him down and make him better. He's fucked it royally. He wants to put his foot up his own ass because what had he been thinking to be so fucking selfish? How was this night in anyway an anomaly? He was almost there. Soon enough, James wouldn't be a constant fixture in his life but now, god, Michael wouldn't blame James for kicking him out forever.

“I don't—,” Michael tries, shamed, but he's quickly cut off.

“Don't you fucking say it. Don't tell me that you don't fucking know! Are you insane?!” James exclaims. Not too loud for the village but boisterous in the tension between them. He runs a hand through his hair and breathes shallowly before saying, “I can't believe you. Fuck, Michael. Fuck you."

And as wrong as it feels and as much as instinct is gnawing at him to grip at James, to plead, Michael's done plenty so he stays still. He doesn't have the right to an alternative. He nods and blinks against the burning sting behind his eyelids, just watches James walk away.

…

Michael contemplates the open bottle of liquor for a long time. So long that he wouldn't have guessed it was nearing one before he checked the screen of his phone, taken out of his head by the knocking on his door. He expects anyone to be on the other side, anyone but James. James who looks defeated and exhausted. Michael's permanent status is set at shit but a small relief crests within him. Perhaps it wasn't logical but he'd had it in mind that he would literally never see James again. Three hours ago, it felt entirely possible. He'd wake in the morning, walk out to eat from craft food service, and find a recast in James' usual seat, sipping on orange juice and coffee rather than sparkling water and tea.

“Why didn't you ever tell me?” James asks, straight to the point.

He's calmer now but Michael can tell he's still off-kilter.

Michael is honest and doesn't bother with a filter because they don't beat around the bush, the two of them. “I believed that I could handle it and that there'd be a point in which it would become easier. I overestimated myself but I've never been in love with a friend before. Not ever. It was all doable until just recently.”

James blinks at him. “Jesus, don't say shit like that with the door open, man,” he says and moves into the trailer. He promptly shuts the door and wheels back around. “Are you still drunk?”

Michael shakes his head. “I'm about ten minutes outside of sober."

“Same.” James inhales and exhales shakily. Michael is patient while he collects himself. “So you're completely aware of everything that is coming out of your mouth at this moment? You're not cracked? You're not joking or—”

“No,” Michael says again, strangled in a way. Because that's just cruel. He would never. “James, no. This isn't a joke. You know me. I wouldn't do that.”

James nods. “How long?”

“Does it make it make a difference?” Michael asks.

“To me it does, yeah.” James is watching him carefully, pins Michael under a gaze that's he's never been able to say no to.

Michael recalls his screen test, how they collaborated with ease and trust, and the instant chemistry. He remembers a fresh-faced boy lying in a ditch and dressed in olive, funny and quick-witted, so effortless to talk to. Ridiculously charming. He nearly buckles, amazed. He's never not loved James. “I've adored you since the day we met.”

There's raw heartbreak in James' response, like it hurts him to say, “I'm married, Michael.”

He's been to James' warm household and sat with his family. He's witnessed James without the hassle of the job, away from the scripts and the cameras. Michael is aware of the happiness that resides in his home, more so in his heart. “I don't expect anything from you. I'm not asking for anything at all. I'm not. What happened—my kissing you was a selfish mistake. Being drunk isn't a good excuse, it's lame but that's what it was. I was drunk and you were close. For one second, for one stupid second it seemed like a good idea and I went with it. It took place and I'm sorry about that. It's not going to happen again.”

“Here's the thing about that, I want it to happen again,” James says after a long moment and Michael's head fills with white noise. “I'm in my trailer and I'm steaming, you know? I'm smashing everything and making a mess, got my hands on all the shit I wouldn't be outrageously charged for, because I felt like you'd made a mess out of our friendship. That you fucked it completely, kissing me. Then I sat down for a while and found myself missing you.”

“James—” Michael starts. He takes a staggering step forward, has no idea what his intention is—

“Just, just hold on for a second. Because I just had an epiphany and I'm kind of dying from it," he laughs nervously, puts his hands up. "No offense but you need to shut the hell up so I can get this all this shit out.” Michael nods numbly. “Good man. So um... I'm sitting there and needing you in a way that I didn't even know existed. I've always put you in the category of a close friend, my best man. I've always cared about you and ranked you high in my life. But all of a sudden, I realized that you're taking up room in me and I'm thinking to myself, 'when did Michael become so important?' Like I was fucking asleep while you climbed your way into my fucking heart. There's this ache and I can't see an end to it.”

"That's an avalanche of words,” Michael says once he's sure that James is done.

“Sometimes I'm actually articulate.”

“You're confusing articulate with long-winded again.”

“Cheeky motherfucker.”

The banter is familiar and comforting. It's as if time has rewound.

Except James is rocking on his heels and Michael is sure he resembles a deer caught in the headlights.

Michael clears his throat, tries not to feel foolish for it. “Well the solution to this—”

“Because you're ace at those,” James comments.

It's a honed skill, speaking over him, “—is obviously to fall back on the basics. We're professionals. Tonight, I suffered from a lapse in judgment but I've been good aside from that. You had no fucking idea. And what you feel, it's...it won't last." And these words are hard, they're killing him, each syllable a jagged and bitter thing. "We're friends and you have a beautiful wife; you're a family man. That's who you are. That one moment outside is nothing compared to who you are, James. We just go back to doing our jobs.”

“And beyond that?”

“Distance.”

“That's done wonders for you so far," James reminds him sarcastically.

"What do you want me to say?" Michael asks roughly, at a loss and unraveling.

"I want you to answer a question for me," James says. "Do you see yourself falling out of love with me? Sincerely, I'm not asking in favor of my ego but to point out how idiotic you're being.”

Baffled, “Excuse me?”

"You can't take back what happened just by saying so. It's done and we're affected."

"It's going to be fine—"

"You told me that it was nowhere near the same and I told you that it was," James responds pointedly, sharp.

"Yeah but you didn't know...,” he falters, distrusts where he's heading. Because there's no way. "How I felt, in that moment with you, you didn't know what I was drawing from."

"Coincidentally enough, it works just as well,” James says and his eyes, they give it all away. They always do. They're open and earnest, shining under the caravan's dismal lighting with affection. “It's the same, Michael. If I can't see an end to it, how the hell can you?”

Feeling faint, Michael connects the dots that James has placed for him. "You..."

“I don't think it's been as long for me as it's been for you but I swear it's the same,” James says softly. "And I have no clue where this is going to take us but you felt right. In that kiss, right now, you've always felt right and nothing has ever felt wrong with you."

"Come here, c'mere, c'mere, James," Michael pleads. When James is within distance, Michael catches his wrist and pulls him close until they're fitted and flush. More fearful than he's ever been in his life. "What...what are you saying to me?"

"I need to know," James licks his lips in his intoxicating and infuriating way here, "that everything else feels right with you."

Michael turns the wrist in his hand over, places a kiss to the thin skin there and the strong pulse underneath. He catalogs the silent gasp, how James' gaze darkens, how his breath quickens—absent jewelry. He swallows against cold guilt. Michael makes a trail from the wrist to the inside of the elbow before looping James' arm around his waist.

He noses into James' space, unhurried, like the careful science that leads up to the dynamite. Michael presses their foreheads together. They're almost kissing with their entire bodies. Almost. "Are you sure?" The distance between them is his hoarse rasp. He's so scared to ask but he has to. "You have to be sure. I don't want for you to regret this. I don't want you to hurt, James."

“Kiss me then, yeah,” James murmurs low, fisting the hem of Michael's shirt.

Michael groans and kisses him hard, hungry for the second chance at his mouth. It's hot and wet and needy; the scratch of the beard sending all of Michael's blood down south. It's Olympic caliber tongue-fucking and Michael feels himself unraveling, his frame loosened by the man in his arms; he's goddamn melting. James was brilliant at this before but it feels like he's gotten impossibly better in the span of a few hours. There's determination in the stroke of his tongue; the bite of his teeth sends sparks throughout Michael. It's not long before their hips are rocking forward, seeking a lewd grind, both of their cocks hard.

“Off, off, off,” James chants when he pulls back. His lips are swollen and Michael immediately kisses him again, has to taste that cherry color again. He darts a wet swipe out and keeps on. James has to shove him a bit to yank off his shirt successfully, peel off his own tee.

While Michael has seen James like this before, in the intimate setting, it feels like the first time. It's a head rush and he wants everything. He runs his hands along the pale skin, the flat stomach, skims the start of dark hair that leads lower. He curls his fingers into the waistband of James' jeans and catches his eyes. "This doesn't feel real. I've wanted you for so long. I've wanted you in every way, everywhere. Need you in my bed."

James brings him down for another filthy kiss. He breaks away momentarily. "Magazines don't know the half of it, do they?"

"What?" Michael asks, distracted by James' mouth. 

Tonguing him so damn good and then laughing a little, James says, "You're a fucking pornstar."

Michael growls. "Don't you start."

Michael tugs James into the other room. He makes quick work of undoing James' belt as he walks them back to the bed. He's got James' jeans and briefs down to his knees before his ass even hits the mattress. Michael gropes his naked ass and pulls James to the edge just where he wants him before dropping to the floor. Wrapping a fist around James' cock, he jerks it and occupies his mouth with James' beautiful hipbone, causing color to rise there. He frames the mark with the indention of his teeth.

"Fuck, Michael," James moans. "Are you? Christ, you are. Fucking hell."

"You're gorgeous everywhere," Michael breathes, right before he licks a stripe from James' hip across his thigh and to the underside of his balls. He rolls them on his tongue slow, not unlike the slippery rhythm he has on James's cock. When Micheal's hand is in an up-going motion, he sucks damp kisses on the underside of James' cock, takes pleasure in the broken cries above him. When Michael finally takes the head in his mouth, it's a reward for them both. The heavy weight of it is delicious and Michael wants its forever. He doesn't make waste before closing his lips around most of the length. He could come from James' desperate sounds. He couldn't have imagined the way his voice quakes, like he's breaking apart in a mix of desperation and hunger. Every time that Michael thinks that he's as deep as he's going to get, James ambushes him and steals the ground from underneath his feet.

James keens, arching. Michael doesn't know exactly when James had threaded a grip into his hair but he can see the edge when James pulls hard. Each pulls goes straight to his cock. When the strain in his lungs is too much, he sucks in a gulp of second best air and swallows James' cock down once more.

He takes a few more thrusts of hips greedily then rolls up when he hears telltales in the shallowness of James' breathing. He wants all of the man and James deserves more than a blowjob. Michael wants to give him everything.

Michael removes the rest of their clothes, climbs up on the bed, and lines himself to James' side. James is on his back, chest reddened and stuttering. Michael peppers kisses at James' throat. Voice scratched, he asks, "Are you alright?"

"Do you not see the brain leaking out of my ears?" James jokes.

Michael grins and goes to look. "Nope, just hair."

James looks offended and Michael opens his mouth over James' before he has a chance to respond, kisses him soft. Let's him taste himself. Michael breaks the kiss to ask, just as soft, "Have you ever...?"

With a bit of a smile twitching into place, James reaches up to stroke a finger against Michael's bottom lip. "I went to drama school. What do you think?"

"I didn't want to presume, it's rude," Michael says before taking the finger in his mouth.

"The man's got me naked and all of a sudden he's a gentleman. I'll spell it out for you then. I want you to fuck me, want you inside me," James tells the mouth action. Tone leaving no room for a misunderstanding, he stares straight into Michael, says, "I want you. Fuck me, Michael."

"You're killing me." Michael means to say it lightly and it comes out as anything but. Exposes him.

James knows surely but he only nudges Michael with a gentle headbutt. "It was an order, Fassbender."

Michael gets a condom from his wallet and the packet of lube he keeps right beneath it. On the walk back to the bed, he's clumsy with the reality of what's being offered to him. His nerve-endings feel scorched at the sight of James, every inch of him bared and gorgeous. Suddenly, he wonders if he should say something. But he can't find anything in his head worthwhile. Nothing could encapsulate how glorious this is, this moment. Michael recognizes the fragility of it, he knows that this may be the only time, more than likely is. He knows, god, he knows. He could fucking howl because to know this and have it taken away will rip him apart, suck the life right out of him. He doesn't speak for both of their sakes.

More selfishly, he doesn't want to ruin the look that James is directing toward him. As though Michael is something precious also. It floods his body warm.

Michael settles in between James' legs, spreads them wide. He opens the lube and drizzles it over his fingers as they kiss again. The cold wet causes James to gasp and Michael shushes him with tongue, diverts his attention with the circling of it as he circles the tip of his finger around James' entrance and presses in to the knuckle. Michael works him slow and thorough because drama school or not, Michael knows it's been a while.

A knuckle then becomes a whole finger, one becomes two and once James is riding and rolling on three, he's cursing for more. Michael doesn't know how he's going to listen to James simply speak after this.

"So good, so so good," James praises, clutching at Michael's shoulders, biting into the heft of one, and rutting fiercely. "Oh, Michael. Now, please. Right the fuck now. It's okay. It's okay, I swear."

Michael is inside of him with a smooth slide, moans at how tight he is, the heat feeling impossible. Michael relishes in the geometry that curves James' spine, how it tries to push so far, become one with Michael's own. God, the satisfaction in his eyes, those blown pupils—that combination of blue and black.

Michael accepts that all aspects of life will pale after this.

"Jesus," James says with grit.

"Yeah?" Michael asks, tracking the contortions in James' face, the screw of not yet there pleasure.

Fevered and darkly pitched, James answers, "Oh yeah." He pushes down until Michael is fully seated in him, grips like he wants his fingers stuck in the spaces of Michael's ribs. "Need you, need you. God, I need it."

Unprepared, Michael cages him with shaky arms that don't steady until James puts a long kiss to his forearm. It gives Michael enough bravery to pull out to the head and sink his hips again. He surrenders to a kiss that's slick salt, tastes like their exertion.

In what feels like no time at all, it turns into an obscene sport.

James' legs are cinched around Michael's waist, holding tight to Michael's sharp thrusts. The slap of skin is cavernous in the shallow-walled room and plays a backdrop to their whines and labored breathing, the punishment on each other's bodies a barely contained secret. Michael had imagined it sweet and he'd imagined it violent but this is a revelation, an unearthing and an exhumation. It's a liberation that lies perfectly in between the range of his dreams, real and yet otherworldly.

Michael almost has James bent in half when his hips get the correct snap, his cock sliding against James' prostate.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck. Don't stop, don't stop that," the other man swears and begs, loosening the bedsheets with his fists.

To watch him try and twist away because it's too much, to watch him come back for more—Michael has no words aside from furious encouragement, hitting that spot with the intent to brand it.

"That's it. Jesus, look at you. That's it. Let go. Let go for me," Michael says as he scrapes his teeth against James' nipple. He bites on whatever he can catch, at James' jaw and beard, his lips, the side of his nose. "Come on, come on, let me see it." 

He reaches in between them and starts to pull James off. He watches the fan of James' eyelashes flutter against his cheekbones, the stretch of ecstasy in his mouth. Michael stores the details deep down in him, urges James on for what he wants most. "I'll take care of you. I'll always take care of you. Just come for me. James, come on, baby."

The endearment leaves James breaking off in a sob and shaking, squeezing Michael's cock so beautifully and painting his fist in hot white.

Michael feels oversensitive as he thrusts harder and faster, like he's covered in livewire as he gets closer to orgasm. He hasn't got a stitch of control left. When he finally comes, it feels like he's emptied his heart, soul, and skeleton. All of buried inside of James and no longer his own. Michael doesn't want any of it back. Too filled with knowing James like this.

The rise and falls of their chests slow in tandem, a heated hushing.

"You," James starts and god, that fucked out voice, "you do know that you weigh a ton, right?"

Oh fuck. "Oh fuck. Sorry."

"S'alright," James assures him, running a soothing hand down his back. Michael shivers. Why can't he have this for the rest of his life? "Just go slow pulling out, yeah?"

Michael is extremely careful. He risks one last glancing kiss as he clutches at the condom. They both wince at the disconnect when he slips out. Michael ties it off and puts it in the trashcan. He gets a washcloth out of the bathroom and comes out to find James sat up against the headboard. The image will never leave him. Michael makes his way over. He doesn't speak as he cleans the mess on James' stomach, the sticky lube from the inside of his bruising thighs.

Michael thought that he was frightened before. A dangerous venture, he says, "You can stay if you want...or not. It's up to you. You don't have to stay. This was—"

Amazing. Right. Good.

Not a mistake.

James softly shakes his head. "Don't want to leave yet. Just set your alarm a little earlier, alright."

"Yeah," Michael agrees. He puts away the cloth, changes his alarm, and retrieves fresh linen from his tiny closet.

Wordlessly they strip the bed and make it up anew.

Michael crawls in first and he hopes that he doesn't give too much away, that he doesn't appear too relieved, when James follows him. He turns out the light and settles into James' arms. Tries not to hope for waking up where he falls asleep.


End file.
